The Young Man and the Sea
by JacksonFarrell
Summary: On the island, seven individuals have found a day-to-day balance: mostly comfortable, sometimes uneasy. It helps them survive. Now a wild card is added: a young man on a Hawaiian honeymoon falls off his boat and washes up on the beach. How will he affect the balance? Who will be hardest hit? Meanwhile, his wife is searching the Pacific for him. . . .
1. Flotsam

Chapter 1: Flotsam

At 7 a.m., a slender young woman in deck shoes walked onto the pier where the yacht waited. She had pale blue eyes, pale blonde hair, a snub nose, and a strong jaw. Fading scars on her wrists were almost hidden by her tan. On her left hand, a plain, narrow gold band caught the rays of the Hawaiian morning's sun. She stood on the pier, basking in the sea breeze.

After a few minutes, a man arrived, carrying a suitcase. He was about the woman's height, but broad and square-built. His blond hair was starting to recede. He wore a Columbia class ring on his right hand, a gold band identical to hers on his left.

The woman hurried to him. "Darling! Oh, isn't this a glorious morning?" She slipped her arms around his waist. He smiled.

"Morning, hon. Lookin' forward to the cruise, I see."

"Oh, yes. Oh, dearest, I do hope you'll like it."

He laughed. "Be way different, that's for sure."

"Oh, that's right - you grew up landlocked, didn't you? You poor baby - you never saw blue water."

The man said, "Well, it's not as if I never saw any in my life. Been in New York a while now, you know."

She smiled. "Yes, but even in New York I never could get you to go sailing with my family, could I?"

"Your father would've made me walk the plank," he muttered.

She laughed. "Oh, sweetheart, you mustn't let Father worry you anymore. He's a pragmatist. We've presented him with a _fait accompli_. He won't be any trouble. He ought to be grateful to you. He wants me to be happy, yes? Well, _you've_ made me happy." She looked him squarely in the eyes. "You practically brought me back from the dead."

She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him, long and slow.

When she was finished, the man turned and took a shaky step toward the boat.

And fell headfirst off the pier.

About 150 miles south and almost 48 hours later, Gilligan emerged from the hut, yawning. The sun was just coming up. Today's first job was to check the lobster traps.

Mary Ann, wearing jeans and a blue checked shirt tied off at the midriff, was seated at the dining table waiting for him. She'd beaten him by a good five minutes. Once Gilligan and the Skipper brought her fresh water and firewood, she could start fixing breakfast. Until then, she'd decided, a walk to the beach and back would be just the thing; this early, the island was as cool as it would be all day.

Mary Ann waved. "Hi, Gilligan," she said. "Going to the lagoon?"

He smiled and nodded. After all this time on the island, he could still be a little tongue-tied with her.

"Mind if I tag along?"

"Sure, come ahead," he said. She got up and fell into step beside him.

"Kind of a nice morning, huh?" she said.

"Sure is."

"Gee, wouldn't it be nice if it could just stay like this all day? Oh, it reminds me of what May was like sometimes back in Kansas. But I guess - "

They stopped. Mary Ann's eyes widened. "Oh, Gilligan, look!"

He'd seen it too. There was a man lying on the wet sand, clutching a life ring. A wave lapped his legs and fell back again.

"Quick! Let's go help him!" The castaways ran to the sodden figure and knelt beside him.

"He's breathing," Gilligan said.

Mary Ann took the man's wrist. _Thank Heaven the Professor showed us how to take a pulse._ The man had one. "Gosh, he's cold," she said.

She looked at Gilligan. "Should we move him?"

Gilligan said, "I guess we better get him out of the surf, anyway."

Working carefully, the two of them were able to move the stranger, laying him gently in the dry sand a few feet away.

Mary Ann knelt down again next to the man. Gilligan straightened up. "One of us better go get the Skipper and the Professor. Can you keep an eye on him?"

"Sure. Oh, and bring a blanket; he's really cold."

"Okay." And Gilligan was off.

Mary Ann looked at the stranger. He was sturdily built. His light-colored hair was plastered to his skull. He wore a collared, open-necked pullover, similar to Gilligan's but blue with short sleeves. He wore khakis and boating shoes. All of it was saturated with seawater.

Mary Ann wished she had a handkerchief, or better yet a beach towel. For the thousandth time since she'd been here, she thought: _Well, I'll just have to make do, then._ She undid the knot in her shirt and used her shirttail to mop seawater from the man's face. Her brows contracted. _Funny,_ she thought. _He looks familiar somehow. Almost like somebody I know. But that's silly._


	2. Not in Kansas Anymore

Chapter 2: Not in Kansas Anymore

After the Professor confirmed that the stranger was breathing and had a pulse, he, Gilligan and the Skipper managed to get him to the supply hut, where they got him out of his sopping clothes and laid him in the Professor's bamboo-framed cot. After that, as the Professor explained, it was just a matter of waiting for him to wake up.

"He's breathing fairly well. Doesn't seem to have any severe external injuries. I can't discern any symptoms of concussion. So it comes down to getting some food, and especially water, into him. He's quite dehydrated - "

"What's 'dehydrated' mean?" This was Gilligan.

"Gilligan, pipe down! Let the Professor talk!" the Skipper said.

"Gilligan, 'dehydrated' simply means he hasn't had any water," said the Professor. Gilligan's eyes widened.

"Professor, are you kidding? He's _soaked_! I bet he's been in the water for _days_!"

"Gilligan, you nincompoop! The Professor means he hasn't had any water _to drink_. Now, I said _pipe down_!" The Skipper shook his head. "Sorry, Professor, go ahead."

"Anyway, his health seems generally good, so I anticipate that he'll wake up soon. But he'd better. We don't have a hospital here. That means we can't feed him or give him water until he does wake up. And if he doesn't wake up in a few days. . . he'll die."

Fortunately, he woke up later that day.

When the castaways decided to keep an eye on the stranger, Mary Ann had volunteered for the first shift. Now she sat in a chair four feet from the cot, sewing and wondering. Who could he be? How had he gotten here? Why couldn't she shake that persistent feeling of familiarity? And the ever-present question, the one that came with any visitor: Would his presence lead, somehow, to a rescue?

The stranger broke the silence with a spasm of violent, wet coughing.

Mary Ann jumped up and rushed over to him. She held his shoulders as he coughed seawater all over himself, the cot, and her. Finally the coughing fit stopped and he began to gasp for breath.

"Are you all right? Ohh - don't go anywhere!" She ran out to get the Professor.

Getting him didn't take long. The entire group was sitting around the table, discussing the stranger, and they'd heard the coughing. The Professor, Gilligan, and the Skipper were already on their feet. The castaways went in a body to the supply hut.

The stranger was trying to catch his breath. As soon as he did, the castaways began asking him questions. All at once.

His eyes widening, the stranger shrank back. After a loud and confused minute or two, the Skipper took charge.

"All right, _now hear this!_ " The chaos subsided.

"People, we are going to go one at a time here. And we are going to start with the Professor. Professor?"

With an effort, the stranger held up a hand.

"Um, 'scuse me. . . ." The voice was weak and raspy, but he went on. "Could I. . . I mean, I have. . . a question? Like. . . where am I, anyway? How'd I get here?"

The Professor answered. "Well, how you got here is simple enough. You washed up on our beach. Where you are. . . well, that's a little difficult to explain. The fact is, we don't know ourselves precisely where we are. We're on an island. I _can_ say that we're approximately 150 miles south of Hawaii, but we don't know our exact coordinates. The island is uncharted and, except for us, uninhabited."

"Us? Who's 'us'?"

"Why, the seven of us," the Professor said. "We're the passengers and crew of the S.S. _Minnow_. We've been marooned here for over two years now."

" _Minnow_? Sounds. . .familiar, somehow. . . guess I heard about it sometime. . . two _years_ , you said?"

"That's right. Thank heaven we all survived. But let me introduce our party: This is our captain, Jonas Grumby - we call him the Skipper. That young man next to him is the first mate, Gilligan. This is Ginger Grant; this is Mrs. and Mrs. Thurston Howell III; and last but hardly least, Mary Ann Summers."

The once-famous names of Ginger Grant and Thurston Howell barely registered on the dazed man. But. . .

"Mary Ann? Summers?" he said. "Funny. . . I used to know a girl named that. . . a kid, really. . . long ago." That gave Mary Ann a start. Nobody else noticed.

"We're all pleased to make your acquaintance," the Professor said. "And may we ask your name?"

"Oh. . . sure, of course. . . My name's Horace. Horace Higgenbotham."


	3. Calm Down, Clam Up

Chapter 3: Calm Down, Clam Up

All Mary Ann's blood seemed to rush to her head. She was turning red; her cheeks were hot. _Now I know how a thermometer feels. In August_.

Her knees were weak. She would've loved to sit down, but Mrs. Howell had taken the only chair. So she devoted every ounce of grit she had to the objective of not fainting. _I will_ not _faint_ , she pledged. _I will not faint, and I will not run out of this hut. I am not going to call_ that _kind of attention to myself_.

Horace Higgenbotham. All the way from Horner's Corners, Kansas. Now _there_ was someone she never thought she'd see again.

Five of the other castaways were stunned into silence. Only Mrs. Howell - who didn't remember the name Horace Higgenbotham - spoke.

"Higgenbotham? Are you by any chance related to the Higgenbothams of Bar Harbor?"

The Professor recovered first. "We can talk later; right now, we've got to get you food and water. Everyone, let's let Mr. Higgenbotham rest while we take care of that." The castaways filed out of the hut.

Outside, the Professor shook his head. "I don't know what I was thinking. Mary Ann, how quickly can we get him something to eat?"

The question forced Mary Ann out of her daze. "Well - gee, Professor, I guess that depends on what we fix. What do you think he can handle?"

"I think he'll have to have something fairly bland. Eventually he's going to need fruit, fats, and so forth, but for the time being, just something he can get down without too much effort and digest easily."

"So something kind of mushy?''

"Precisely."

"Let's see. . . I've got that flour-like stuff I use for pancakes and muffins - you know, the powdered dried breadfruit? If I mix a bowlful of that up with some water and some coconut milk. . . maybe a mashed banana? Would that be okay?"

"I think that would be just the thing," the Professor said.

"Fifteen minutes," Mary Ann said, "if someone can bring me some water." She headed for her makeshift kitchen.

"Gilligan," the Skipper said, "lay up to the well and get a bucket of water." Gilligan turned to go.

"Wait, Gilligan," the Professor said. "Get two buckets. One for Mary Ann, and bring one back here so we can give Mr. Higgenbotham a drink."

The Skipper said, "You heard the man. Move out, Gilligan. On the double."

As Gilligan rushed off, the Skipper took the Professor aside.

"What do you think, Professor? This could be awfully embarrassing for Mary Ann."

"Perhaps not. After all, _we_ all know about that whole business already. The thing that might really embarrass her would be if Mr. Higgenbotham were to find out."

"Yeah, I guess so. But none of us would be dumb enough to say anything to _him_ about it." The Skipper looked up the path to the well. He scowled. "Maybe I spoke too soon."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Focusing on the task at hand had allowed Mary Ann to get a grip on herself. After preparing Horace's mush she hadn't gone back to see him; instead, she cleaned up her open-air kitchen while she thought.

Her thoughts were running along the same lines as the Skipper's. Horace must never find out that she'd been telling the other castaways he was her boyfriend. That would be a humiliation she couldn't stand.

Mary Ann knew she could count on most of the others to keep quiet. She thought briefly about Mrs. Howell. As much as Mary Ann looked up to her, at times Mrs. Howell did seem a bit. . . dizzy. But Mrs. Howell had experience with all kinds of social situations, and more tact than anyone Mary Ann had ever known. She decided she wouldn't worry about Mrs. Howell.

Then there was Gilligan. . . . Mary Ann sighed. She knew she could count on his friendship. But his discretion? Uh-uh. She was just going to have to talk to him.

She got up and headed for the boys' hut, hoping to catch him alone. She forced herself to walk faster. This wasn't going to be easy, but life had taught her that the way to deal with things that weren't easy was to go right at them.

She knocked tentatively on the door of the hut. Gilligan was sitting in a chair eating a banana, his left profile facing the door. "Hi, Gilligan."

Gilligan jumped to his feet, dropped the banana, and turned to face the door, knocking the chair over. "Hi, Mary Ann."

She hesitated. "Okay if I come in?"

"Sure! Absolutely! Let me get you a. . . chair?" He looked around in puzzlement. _Wasn't I just sitting on it? Where'd it go?_

"Oh, no, thanks - this won't take long." She paused. "Gilligan, do you remember when I was writing all those letters to Horace, and you were helping me send them out?"

"Sure. Then when we heard about Horace getting married, none of us had the guts to tell you, but we all tried to cheer you up. It was just a few weeks ago."

Mary Ann took a deep breath. "Well, I just came over to ask - oh, Gilligan, you won't say anything about that to Horace, will you?" Her throat tightened. "I mean, the letters, and me telling everyone he was my boyfriend? Especially that last part."

Gilligan was surprised. "Of course not."

She looked up at him with deep brown eyes. "Promise? It would mean an awful lot to me."

"Sure I promise."

"No offense, Gilligan, but you do kind of have a tendency to. . . ." She grimaced. "Well, blurt things out?"

His smile faded. "Mary Ann, I will never say a word to Horace about any of that. I swear it."

She sighed. "Oh, Gilligan, thank you." She kissed his cheek.

He squirmed. "Mary _Ann_."

"You're wonderful."

He shook his head. "No, I'm not. Because you're right, I _do_ blurt things out. But not this, Mary Ann."

She smiled. "Well. . . thanks again." She blew him a kiss as she left.

Gilligan ducked.


	4. Long Distance

Chapter 4: Long Distance

Trans-Pacific phone call

Honolulu to New York

"Father? Fa - Ohh, _Daddyyy_. . . . Daddy, the most dreadful thing has happened. _Horace is missing_.

"What? No, of course he hasn't run off. He _fell_ off the boat.

"Why, I'm in Hawaii. . . . Yes, I see. . . . I can't blame you. I suppose I'd best start from the beginning. It's just that I'm so fri - so _worried_.

"Well, after we eloped, we flew out here for a honeymoon. I thought we'd rent a yacht; that way, I could teach Horace to sail, and we could spend a week exploring a bit before coming home. Well, we did rent the yacht, and hired a good captain, but there was the most dreadful storm, and Horace w-was. . . was thrown overboard. . . . Oh, Daddy, I don't know if I can bear it.

"Yes. Just as soon as the storm subsided, the captain radioed the Coast Guard, then we sailed straight back and I made a report. They've been looking for him ever since.

"No, Daddy, I can't, not now. Don't you see that I've got to be here when they bring Horace in? Really, Daddy, suppose this had happened to you. Would Mother have just abandoned her post and flown off to New York? And what would you think of her if she did?

"Yes, I'm aware of that possibility. But it's far too soon to think of that. I am _not giving up_. . . . I suppose the company hasn't any ships in this area that could participate in the search? . . . No, I thought not. I understand.

"What? What do you _mean_ , 'good riddance to bad rubbish'? That's an absolutely horrible thing to say. . . . Oh, really? Well, you'd better hope he does, Father, because I promise you this: I will not be leaving this place without him."

 _Slam_. Click.


	5. The In-Laws

Chapter 5. The In-Laws

In the Howell hut, Mr. Howell was passing along what they'd learned about Horace before leaving so he could rest. Mrs. Howell was trying to take in the fact that Horace was a Columbia graduate.

"Really, Thurston, the boy might just as well have attended a trade school. Why, you hire a dozen Columbia men from every graduating class. All quite clever, no doubt, but hardly people one _knows_. Tell me, where did he attend preparatory school?"

"Err, Winfield, I believe it's called."

"Winfield? I'm afraid I've never heard of it. Is it in New Hampshire?"

"Worse - Kansas."

"Kansas?"

"Furthermore, it's not exactly a _prep_ school, my dear; it's more of a . . . well, to be precise, I believe it's a public high school."

"It is? How extraordinary. I don't know that I've ever met anyone who attended a public high school."

"My dear, I think it's a reasonable assumption that everyone on this island attended some such institution. With the exception, of course, of, er, _us_."

Mrs. Howell's eyes widened. "Why, of course, Thurston! They _must_ have. You know, I never thought about that." She beamed. "Just think - stranded with people who went to _public high schools_! Wasn't that democratic of us!"

Mr. Howell winced. "Lovey, _must_ you use that _word_?"

Mrs. Howell ignored this. "Now, let me see. . . Winfield, Kansas? Where have I heard that before? . . . Oh, I know! That's where our dear little Mary Ann comes from, isn't it? Well, if the boy's from Mary Ann's hometown, then perhaps he's all right after all. I wonder if she's acquainted with him?"

Before answering, Mr. Howell took a second to wonder if it was worth it.

"My dear, I don't know if you recall just a little while ago, when Mary Ann was writing a daily _billet-doux_ to her purported boyfriend back home, and sending the missives out to sea in bottles?"

"Oh, of course I do, Thurston! That was when Gilligan heard on the radio that the boy was marrying some other girl, and we all thought Mary Ann would be dreadfully upset. And she _was_ dreadfully upset, even though she hadn't _heard_ about the boy marrying someone else, because we all tried to cheer her up to keep her from _being_ upset. Only she didn't _know_ she was supposed to be upset over that, so she concluded that we were trying to cheer her up because she was dying. Which she wasn't. And that upset her. Not the fact that she wasn't, but that she thought she was."

 _I certainly miscalculated_ that _one_ , Mr. Howell thought.

"And then it turned out, not only didn't she know the boy was marrying someone else, but she never cared a bit for him in the first place! That is, Mary Ann didn't. Which must have been an awful disappointment to the poor boy. If he'd known about it, I mean. And if he weren't marrying the other girl. Really, if you ask me, the whole mess was Gilligan's fault."

Mr. Howell had been adrift on the rushing current of his wife's recapitulation, but this stopped him short. "Eh? Gilligan's fault? How so, darling?"

"Why, if he hadn't been listening to the radio, none of it would ever have happened!"

There was nothing he could say to _that_. Best return to the original subject.

"Be that as it may -"

"Oh, pooh! That's what you always say when you know I'm right and don't want to admit it."

Doggedly he went on. "The point is that the boy Mary Ann was writing to, the one who married the other girl, was in fact this selfsame Mr. Higgenbotham who has just involuntarily joined our little community. In other words, yes, Mary Ann knows him. Not quite as well as she was pretending to, perhaps, but they are acquainted."

"I see. And does she know the other girl?"

"I doubt whether _she_ does, my sweet, but I can positively say that _we_ do."

"We do? Why, who is she?"

"Well, Lovey, she's your, er, niece Sybil."

Mrs. Howell was shocked into silence for a good five seconds.

"Sybil! This young man married _Sybil_? . . . Well, then, Thurston, we'll have to make him welcome. And we must find out all we can about him. Oh, I do wish, now, that we were back in civilization; then we could engage a firm of investigators to look into him. If only I'd done that before she got involved with that odious. . . ." She couldn't bring herself to say the name of Randolph Blake.

"Lovey," Mr. Howell reminded her, "that would cost a rather large sum. Those firms don't work cheap."

"Nonsense, Thurston. No expense could be too great. After all, it's for family."

"I could think of _some_ expenses that would be too great," he muttered.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Mrs. Howell extended a graceful hand to the man sitting up on the cot. "Oh, how nice to finally meet you, Mr. Higgins."

Horace fidgeted. "Uh, nice to meet you too, ma'am," he said. "But it's Higgen _botham_."

"Oh, of course. Do please forgive me." She smiled. "You should, you know. After all, we are family."

" _We_ are?"

"Oh, yes. You see, I'm a Wentworth, and your bride Sybil is my relative."

This startled Horace. "She is?"

"Why, yes. Now, let me see. . . . I believe she's my. . . second cousin, once removed. Or something like that. But I think of Sybil as more of a niece. We Wentworths have a strong sense of family, you know. I've known Sybil since she was a baby, and I've always been so close to her parents. Such lovely people. . . . But how silly of me! Of course you've met them yourself."

"Well. . . ." Horace was sweating lightly. "I've only met her dad, actually."

"Good heavens! You mean you haven't met Louise yet? I wonder why."

Horace didn't know how to answer this. (The fact was, Louise hadn't wanted to meet him.) After a few awkward seconds, Mrs. Howell took him off the griddle.

"Well, you've something to look forward to, then, once we're rescued. I know you'll like her." She beamed. "But you _have_ met Gordon, then."

"Yes, ma'am." That meeting had been awkward, too. Gordon Wentworth had tried to bribe Horace to stay away from his daughter. The relationship had gone downhill from there.

"How nice. Now: how did you and Sybil happen to meet?"

This was getting worse than one of his dad's famous late-night cross-examinations. And Mrs. Howell had touched on another story Horace didn't want to tell. He'd first met Sybil in New York when she was seeing Randolph Blake. Later, Horace's father had told him that Howell Industries had transferred Blake to Honolulu. (Lucky stiff!) Horace had remembered the pale (but sort of cute) blonde who'd seemed so attached to Randolph. It might be worth seeing if she was on the rebound, or what. Randolph had mentioned that she was at Radcliffe, so she wasn't hard to find. He'd gone up to Boston and called on her, and things had developed from there.

But Horace didn't want to own up to knowing Randolph. He knew - Sybil, in her straightforward way, had told him - how Randolph had treated her. This sweet, well-bred lady, now giving him a genteel third degree, would not be one of Randolph's fans.

Horace sought refuge in vagueness. "Oh, we were introduced. . . . Mutual friend."

"How interesting," Mrs. Howell said. "That the two of you should have a mutual friend, I mean, when you were going to school in New York, and Sybil was up at Radcliffe."

Now that Horace thought of it, vagueness had never worked on his dad, either. Or the assistant principal at Winfield Consolidated High School. Or the Dean of Men at Columbia.

"Oh, yeah, well. . . . She was just a girl in my class at Columbia who knew Sybil - from prep school, I guess."

Mrs. Howell didn't pursue it. Horace congratulated himself. _Smooth. That was close, though. If we ever do get rescued, I'll have to ask Sybil to back me up on this one._

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Back in the Howells' hut, Mrs. Howell was sharing her impressions with her husband.

"I don't quite know, Thurston," she said. "He seems pleasant enough. . . a bit unpolished, perhaps. And I don't wish to judge the poor man unfairly, after what he's been through. But he simply doesn't strike me as a. . . straightforward sort of person."

Mr. Howell chuckled. "Of course, Lovey, in some professions, straightforwardness can be rather a handicap. What does the boy do for a living, by the way?"

"Oh, he works at one of those banks in Manhattan; I don't recall which." Mrs. Howell waved a hand. "They're all the same to me, anyway."

" _What_? All the _same_! Lovey, how can you _say_ that? Have you no soul, woman? Is a Van Gogh 'all the same' as a Rembrandt? Versailles 'all the same' as Biltmore? Are Newport and the Riviera 'all the same'? A Veuve Clicquot '53 the same as a Bollinger '59? Would you say -"

She cut him off. "But I'm not concerned with the boy's professional endeavors, dear. It's Sybil I'm thinking of. After what she's been through, I'd hate to see her married to someone unsuitable." She paused. "We must have Mary Ann in for a chat. She can tell us a great deal about the boy, I'm sure."


	6. Sunflower, Weary of Time

Chapter 6. Sunflower, Weary of Time

 _Oh, good_ , Mary Ann thought, _at least he's out of bed. Must be getting better_. She had been waiting three days.

Smiling, she walked up to the table, where Horace sat by himself. "Hi, Horace. How're you feeling?"

He smiled back. "Pretty good, all things considered."

She sat down across from him. "Well, don't get better too soon. We're going to put you to work, you know."

Horace coughed. "Gee, I think I still have some seawater in my lungs. . . . Just kidding. Happy to pitch in, anytime you say."

 _Oh, sure. Just like when you "worked" in the feed store back home_. "Oh, there's no need to rush. We'll make sure you're okay first."

She folded her hands in front of her. "Well! Here we are, all this way from Kansas, and marooned on the same island! How's that for a coincidence?" She grinned. "Maybe we should start a South Pacific branch of the Winfield High Alumni Association, huh?"

Horace chuckled. "Guess we could."

"Uh. . . . Speaking of Winfield, how are things back home?"

"Well, Mary Ann, you know, I haven't been back in a while - almost a year, actually; been working in New York ever since graduation."

"Oh, but you must have heard _something_. I've missed home so much! Can't you tell me anything?"

"Hmmm, lemme see now. . . . You remember Merlin Kimpel?"

She did. Merlin, it turned out, was now a state trooper. Slightly flattered by Mary Ann's wide-eyed attention, Horace went on, producing nuggets about Jerry Van Etten (graduated from KU) and Ed Prescott (married) and Christine Ackerman (got the red ribbon for her peach preserves at the State Fair), and striking out a time or two with a name Mary Ann didn't know.

After about twenty minutes of this, she said:

"How - how about my mom? And Uncle George and Aunt Martha? Have you heard anything about them?"

Horace shook his head. "Gee, I'm afraid not. Your Uncle George never cared much for my dad, you know - which is understandable, don't get me wrong - but anyway they don't exactly send each other Christmas cards. So I don't hear much about George and them. I'm sorry."

Mary Ann bit her lip. " _Ohhhh_. . . it's not your fault." She paused. "Anything else?"

"Well, you probably don't care about politics too much, but you might be interested to know our new governor's from Cowley County."

"Really?"

"Yeah, Bob Docking from Ark City. Democrat, but the legislature's still Republican, so I don't guess things'll change much."

"That's all right with me," Mary Ann said. "I'm so afraid, sometimes, that we'll be stuck here for years, and when I get home, everything will be so different that. . . well, that I'll be out of place. . . . I won't know what to do or where to go." She shivered.

Horace looked away. "Yeah. . . ." He cleared his throat. "I've actually met him, you know - he's a banker, so of course Dad knows him. Before _this_ happened, Dad was thinking he could possibly get me a job on his staff."

"No kidding? Congratulations." _Sure, whatever Horace wants, his dad can get him. Now_ there's _something that'll never change_. But his next words surprised her.

"Yeah, well, I don't know if I really want to do that. New York's not such a bad place in some ways, once you get used to it. Besides. . . well, now I've got Sybil, and before we got married she was one of these high-class Society gals, a debutante and all this, and I don't know how she's gonna _feel_ about moving to Topeka."

Mary Ann looked him square in the eyes. "Horace, you know what I think? If Sybil loves you, she'll follow you to Topeka or anywhere else. If I were you, I'd talk to her about it."

Horace frowned. "Yeah, I guess you're right, Mary Ann. Thanks."

"Of course," she added, "if it's a matter of _you_ not wanting to go, then it's simple. All you need to do is stand up to your dad."

"Yeah," Horace said. "Simple." He sighed. "Couldn't get much simpler."

He considered for a moment. "Of course, that's assuming I ever get off this island."

"Oh, Horace, don't say that! Why, we're bound to be rescued now that you're here!"

"Huh? How's that?"

"Why, Sybil, of course! Don't you realize she'll be moving heaven and earth to find you? And she owns her own shipping company, doesn't she?"

"Well. . . actually, Mary Ann, her _father_ is the one who owns the company. And he doesn't care too much for me. That's. . . sort of why we eloped."

"Oh, that doesn't matter. You're his son-in-law, whether he likes it or not. And he won't say no to his daughter, not on something like this. Why, I bet he'll have every ship he owns out there looking!" Mary Ann clapped her hands together and beamed. "Oh, Horace, just think! We could all be home in a few weeks! I'll see Kansas again! And it's all thanks to you!"

 _Yeah_ , he thought sardonically, _good thing I fell into the ocean, huh?_ Even so, with Mary Ann smiling at him, he couldn't help feeling a little pleased.

Author's note: According to the infallible Wikipedia, "Ark City" is local shorthand for Arkansas City, Kansas.


	7. For Whom the Phone Rings

Chapter 7: For Whom the Phone Rings

When the phone rang, Sybil pounced.

For a whole week she had stuck to her hotel room, leaving it only to haunt the Coast Guard station. And in the room, her life revolved around the phone, the phone, the phone.

When she bathed she left the door open so she could hear the phone. She took all her meals in her room. She avoided phoning out, grudging even the minute it took to order room service. When she remembered to eat - and she often forgot - she had taken to sticking her head out to see if any of the hotel staff was in the hallway. If anyone was there, she'd beckon and ask him or her to place her meal order, explaining with an apologetic smile (and a tip) that she didn't want to tie up the phone. They didn't mind; they all knew.

Now it rang. Horace had been missing for a week.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

USCG Station Honolulu was dream duty, and they only gave it to officers they were happy with; receiving orders for Honolulu meant you were moving up. But nothing's perfect, even in Paradise, and this was the worst part of Commander Gregg's job. Fortunately, you only had to do these calls a few times a year.

She picked up on the first ring. They generally did.

"Mrs. Higgenbotham? Commander Gregg here. . . . Ma'am, I'm sorry to report that we haven't had any success in finding your husband. We've received orders to discontinue the search. . . . Yes, ma'am. I'm terribly sorry.

"No, ma'am. We've found no evidence to positively indicate that he _didn't_ survive. Theoretically, it's possible he washed up on one of the little islands out there. But we overflew every island within the search perimeter and saw no sign of him. . . . Outside the perimeter? Again, yes, theoretically it's possible. It would take an awful lot of luck, though, given the distances involved.

"Huh? . . . I suppose you could, at that. At least, I don't think anyone could stop you. But honestly, ma'am, I wouldn't recommend it. I mean, some of those islands can be pretty dangerous. We found that out in the war. Snakes, bugs, diseases. . . . Not to mention some of the local indigenous populations are kind of, well, unfriendly. And they're not well-charted, either - the islands, that is - you could cruise for years, and never find the right one. That's assuming there _is_ a 'right one.'

"No, ma'am, I couldn't recommend anyone. One thing I _will_ say, though: if you insist on doing this, make sure you get a good-sized power boat. Don't, for heaven's sake, go fooling around down there under sail. . . . You're welcome. And again, ma'am, let me say on behalf of the Coast Guard how deeply sorry we are. . . . Good-bye."

Commander Gregg shook his head. Then he looked at his watch. It was 0943 hours. _At least this should be the low point of my day._


	8. Reverie

Chapter 8: Reverie

Mary Ann walked into the supply hut, where Horace sat on a chair. She was wearing a straw hat, white turtleneck, and jeans. She slipped into the chair opposite Horace, giving him a great view of the sweater.

Narrowing her eyes, she said, "Horace, I baked two coconut cream pies this morning. I gave one to Gilligan. The other was supposed to be for dessert tonight. But it's missing. Do you have any idea where it went?"

Horace opened his blue eyes wide, hoping he looked innocent. "Gee, Mary Ann, I don't have the slightest idea."

She gave him an exasperated look. "Horace, I know perfectly well you took that pie. And now you've lied to me about it." She shook her head. "What am I going to do with you?"

"Mary Ann, I -"

"You could've at least asked first. That pie was supposed to be for everyone. Do you have any idea how much work they are? Why, chopping the coconut alone is a whole morning's chore. And _you_ try making a cream pie sometime without any cream."

Horace said, "Well, then, how come you made an extra one just for Gilligan?

Mary Ann slapped his face. "Horace Higginbotham, _don't you dare talk back to me_!"

She sighed.

"Well, I guess there's only one thing left. Honestly, it's what your father should have done fifteen years ago." She stood. He felt her small, cool hand grasp his. He was too dazed to resist as she pulled him out of the chair with a gentle but insistent force. "Come on," she said, and led him out of the hut. . . .

" _Horace_! Hey, Horace! Are you okay?" Ginger said, snapping her fingers in his face.

Horace jumped. He looked around and blinked. He wasn't in the hut; he was on the lounge chair outside. No Mary Ann - only Ginger. He shook his head.

"Boy," Ginger said, "you must have been deep in thought. You were just kind of staring into space."

"Oh," Horace said. That seemed to exhaust his supply of conversation.

"Thinking good thoughts, I hope?"

"Um. . . yeah, I guess."

"Thinking about Sybil, I suppose." Looking down at him, she raised her eyebrows. "At least, I _hope_ you were thinking about Sybil."

Horace turned red. Ginger giggled. "Oh, well, I'll leave you to your thoughts." She turned to go.

"Wait," he said. She paused. He tried a grin. "How do you know I wasn't thinking about you?"

She gave him a sardonic glance. "Don't flatter yourself."


	9. The Itch

Chapter 9: The Itch

If there was one person in the world Horace wished he could talk to right now, it was Randolph Blake.

It wasn't that he liked Randolph anymore, not after what Sybil had told him. The guy had been a first-class SOB, no doubt about that. But Randolph would have known just what to do, how to act in this situation. And so help him, Horace didn't know who else to ask. The Skipper intimidated him. Anyway, he was too old. It would be like asking his dad. Horace thought of his dad and shuddered. Absolutely not.

The Professor? About the same age as Randolph. But too formal. Horace was never comfortable with the guy. Heck, half the time he couldn't even make out what the guy was _saying_.

That left Gilligan. He seemed a bit dim to Horace, but at least you could have a _conversation_ with him. They weren't far apart in age. And then, too, Gilligan was a sailor. Horace knew about sailors. Kansas-bred and Ivy League-educated, Horace had never even met a sailor until he and Sybil had chartered the sailboat back in Hawaii. But so what? Everybody knows about sailors. Right?

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Gilligan sort of liked having Horace around. He seemed a bit dim to Gilligan, but that wasn't all bad. Gilligan sometimes felt like the least competent of the castaways. Now Horace had taken over that role. Gilligan could be a little careless or clumsy at times; he knew that. But after the Navy, the _Minnow_ , and two-plus years on the island, he had a big edge in practical experience over a guy like Horace.

Even the Skipper could see that. And so, when the Skipper assigned Gilligan and Horace to a two-man working party, it was natural for him to say, "Gilligan, take Horace and go. . . ." This morning, it had been: "Take Horace and go get the water." As far as Gilligan was concerned, that meant _Gilligan_ was in charge of the working party.

That felt pretty good. And if Gilligan ended up doing most of the work. . . well, maybe Horace still wasn't a hundred percent. . . anyway, the feeling was worth it.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The well was a familiar sight to Horace, even though he hadn't yet seen it. Back home, he'd seen similar wells on some of the older farms his dad had foreclosed on. The water was in an underground pool at the bottom of a hole. The Professor had designed a simple crank, and he, Gilligan, and the Skipper had set it up on a bamboo frame over the hole. You let the bucket down at the end of a rope, then you reeled it back up.

Unfortunately, by the time they reached the well, Horace was already a little winded - Gilligan had given him two empty buckets to haul up here on a yoke - and so not in the best shape to appreciate this touch of home. He said, "Gilligan, can we take a break for a minute?"

"We just got here," Gilligan pointed out. Gilligan also had a yoke and two buckets.

"Yeah, I know, but I want to talk to you. I need to ask you something."

Flattered, Gilligan said, "Oh, okay." He sat on the ground. Horace turned one of his buckets over and sat on that.

"Um, Horace," Gilligan said, "you shouldn't do that. You'll get dirt all over the rim, and it'll get into the bucket. The girls use this water for cooking and washing, so we need to keep it as clean as we can."

"Sorry." Horace got up, brushed off the rim, and sat on the ground.

"Okay, so what did you want to talk about?"

"Well. . . I just need to know. . . I mean, I just wanted to, you know, ask. . . well, look. . . ."

"Look at what?"

Horace plowed ahead. "You have, like, two single girls and three single guys here."

"Yeah, so?"

"Well, I'm just wondering what you guys do when you get . . . well, the urge."

"The urge?"

Horace was sweating. This was turning into work. "Yeah, the _urge_. . . the _itch_."

Gilligan brightened. "I scratch it. What else?"

"Right! That's what I'm getting at. _How_ do you. . . scratch it?"

"With my fingernails, usually."

Horace was starting to look a little ill. Gilligan continued:

"Well, not always. When it's in the middle of my back, I can't reach back there, I have to use a stick."

Horace steeled himself for another effort. "Look, that's not exactly what - "

Gilligan jumped to his feet. "Horace, I don't mind shooting the breeze with you, but we've gotta get that water back to camp." He cranked the handle to raise the well bucket. "The girls are _not_ gonna be happy with us if we don't."

An opening! Horace said, "Well, we sure don't want that, right? So what do the girls do when they're unhappy? Do they. . . hold out?"

"Oh, no, they still cook and do the laundry." Gilligan frowned. "Well, there was this one time when they moved out and set up their own camp. They stayed away for two whole days! Mr. Howell swore he could cook, but he burned every meal he fixed. And do I ever mean _burned_! And the mending. . . ." Gilligan shook his head. "Come to think of it, we _really_ don't want to make them mad. Let's get this water back on the double."

Yep, sometimes Horace sure did miss Randolph. _Whatever happened to him, anyway?_


	10. Kansas in August

Chapter 10: Kansas in August

In the girls' hut, Ginger was dishing to Mary Ann about her encounter with Horace. She spared none of the details.

Mary Ann sighed. "Yep, that's Horace, all right. He always did think he was God's gift to girls. Of course, a lot of girls back home used to think so too."

Ginger couldn't believe it. "Really? How come?"

"Simple. Horace's dad owned the bank over in Horner's Corners. So Horace always had plenty of money, and he got a car for his sixteenth birthday. Pretty nice one, too. So he never had much trouble finding girls who would go for him - or at least put up with him."

That made sense to Ginger. "And did you?"

Mary Ann snickered. "Never got the chance to turn him down. Remember, Horace is three years older than me - when I was a freshman in high school, he was a senior. And then we never did get along. When my dad and Mr. Blake had the feed store, we both worked there - well, actually, _I_ was the one who worked there; _he_ just had a job." She rolled her eyes. "And you should have _seen_ the way he used to kiss up to Mr. Blake. It was embarrassing. Anyway, we had a little argument once. . ."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

 _Enough was enough._

 _13-year-old Mary Ann knew she was never going to like Horace - whenever she saw that darn car he was so proud of, it looked like her dad's farm, foreclosed on by Horace's father, driving away on four wheels in the Kansas dust._

 _Still, there was life to be lived and work to be done, and not much time to nurse grudges. Horace teased her about her height? Fine, let him; she didn't mind. Maybe it didn't seem quite fair that Horace got paid the same for goofing off as Mary Ann did for actually working in the feed store, just because her dad's partner was pals with Horace's dad. But she could live with it. When you thought about it, it was kind of like the parable about the farmer who paid his hired hands who'd worked a half-day the same as the ones who'd worked a full day. As for the girls who buzzed around Horace, Mary Ann knew why they buzzed and (therefore) what they were; so, as far as she was concerned, the laugh was on them and Horace._

 _But there were limits. Horace never bothered to notice what other people cared about; but even Horace should have known better, on this blazing hot day in August, than to knock 4-H._

 _Mary Ann hadn't even been talking to_ him _. She and Laurie Casey were in front of the drug store, talking about last night's 4-H meeting and the upcoming county fair. Horace was parked nearby, with nothing better to do than lounge on the hood of his stupid car with his ears flapping. He broke into his patented idiotic cackle._

" _4-H!" he hooted. "What a complete waste of time!"_

 _Mary Ann wheeled on him._

" _Who cares what you think, you creep?" she snapped. "I bet you don't even know what 4-H stands for!"_

 _Horace hadn't been expecting a counterattack, not from quiet little Mary Ann. "Ummm. . . lemme see, now. . . . Head, hearth. . . uh, horses and hay?"_

 _Mary Ann rolled her big brown eyes in disgust. "That shows how much_ you _know about it! It's 'Head, Heart, Hands, and Health'! And you don't qualify on any of those! You've got nothing in your head, you've got no heart, you've never used your hands in your life. . . and if you don't stay away from me from now on, your health is gonna be in jeopardy!" She turned back to her friend. "Let's go in, Laurie. We can get ice cream sodas and talk without a zillion_ weirdos _eavesdropping on us."_

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The memory made Mary Ann smile. ". . . and I told him what I thought of him. After that, he wouldn't have had the nerve to ask me out, even if he ever wanted to."

Ginger grimaced. "Well, you sure didn't miss much."


	11. Two Spiral Notebooks

Chapter 11: Two Spiral Notebooks

The light from the tiki torches illuminated the dinner table, where the Skipper and the Professor sat alone. Everyone else was in bed. The Professor had been doing some calculations in two battered spiral notebooks.

"Skipper," he said, "these statistics I've compiled since Horace has been on his feet show conclusively that we have a major problem on our hands. Look: here are the figures on our average food consumption since we've been here. And here are the figures on the work we've done in that time.

"Now, I've omitted the man-hours we've spent on rescue efforts and defense, because those are mainly situational - we work on rescue efforts when a particular opportunity presents itself, and on defense mostly when some specific danger threatens. But these figures deal with things such as the amount of food gathered, firewood, water - the basics of survival.

"Horace has been on his feet for three weeks now. In that time, our average food consumption has spiked." This was illustrated by a meticulous line graph in one of the notebooks. The Skipper had to admit: it really did look like a spike. "With one more mouth to feed, you'd expect it to go up by approximately one-seventh - about fourteen percent. In fact, it's gone up by _one-fifth_ , or _twenty_ percent.

"Yet our collective productivity has gone up scarcely at all. We aren't gathering more food, firewood, or water. Nor are we even getting the _same_ amount in less time, which would free us up for other tasks. In other words, Skipper: Horace is eating a lot and contributing nearly nothing to our continued survival. He's a drag on us - a millstone around our necks."

The Skipper was taken aback. "Well, but Professor - you know, Gilligan and I eat a lot, too -"

"Yes, and between the two of you, you do most of the physical labor on this island. You two don't simply _contribute_ to our continued survival; you are _essential_ to it. I can assure you: you aren't the source of the problem."

This was a side of the Professor that the Skipper hadn't seen much of up to now, and he didn't care for it. The whole discussion seemed a little coldblooded. "Okay, so what about the Howells?"

The Professor was patient. "I admit the Howells may consume a disproportionate share of supplies relative to their contribution. But they are in their _sixties_ , Skipper, and unused to physical labor. Horace is also unused to work - but he's young and strong, fully recovered from his ordeal in the ocean, and he eats a great deal more than the Howells do."

"Well, all right. Let's say you're right, Professor. What do you want us to do about it? Shoot him? Starve him?"

"Oh, good heavens, no. That would be inhumane."

"Well, I'm glad we agree on _something_. What _do_ we do, then?"

"I don't think we need to do anything - yet. If things go on as they are, though, we may ultimately have to give Horace a choice: either contribute to the survival of our community, or - be exiled from it and survive on his own."

The Skipper frowned. "If he can, you mean."

The Professor didn't flinch. "Precisely. If he can."


	12. Wayward Son

Chapter 12: Wayward Son

"Mary Ann was actually quite reluctant to say much about him," Mrs. Howell told her husband. "Considering what she had to say, one can hardly blame her."

"And what was that?" Mr. Howell sipped his drink, a rum concoction in a tall, highly polished bamboo tumbler.

"Well, she said she never much liked him when they were children together in Kansas. To be fair, she did allow that he may have changed since then. But she described him as. . . let me see. . . spoiled, lazy, and obnoxious. And I have a great deal of respect for that young lady's opinion, Thurston."

"Spoiled, lazy, and obnoxious, eh?" Mr. Howell said. "Translate that into Latin, and you've got a motto for Yale."

Mrs. Howell went on. "But that's not the worst of it. She also said that, back home, young Mr. Higgenbotham was a sort of protege of that. . . _infamous_ man, that. . . Randolph Blake."

"By George! No!"

She nodded grimly. "Oh, yes. Don't you remember, Thurston - Blake also came from Mary Ann's hometown."

"Now that you mention it, yes."

"I'm very concerned, Thurston. You know what kind of man Blake was. Just think what sort of an influence a man like that would be on an impressionable boy."

Mr. Howell, for once, was the distracted one. "You know, Lovey, this makes Mary Ann's recent conduct more inexplicable than ever. After all, she proclaimed him to all of us as her true love; she wrote him innumerable love letters, stuffed them into bottles, scattered them all over the South Pacific- "

Mrs. Howell didn't bother quibbling with this somewhat overstated version of Mary Ann's "conduct."

"Yes, Thurston. But right now I'm more concerned for Sybil. She's the one who married him. Mary Ann knows quite well what Mr. Higgenbotham is like. But Sybil - Thurston, I'm deathly afraid Sybil may not."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

As quietly as he could, Horace moved away from the Howell hut. He'd been passing by on his way to the supply hut when he heard Mrs. Howell mention his name. His ears had pricked up and he'd stopped. Then he moved in closer, flattening himself against the outer wall (not that Horace was exactly _flat_ ) so he could hear without being seen.

He hadn't gotten everything they'd said - sometimes those accents just defeated him - but he'd heard the bit about Mary Ann and the love letters. _Innumerable_ love letters, Howell had said. To _him_. Hot dog! _Problem solved_.


	13. What's the Matter with Kansas

Chapter 13: What's the Matter with Kansas

Whatever charm Horace had once had for Gilligan was starting to wear off. It was getting harder and harder to get any useful work out of him. And for a guy who got as little done as Horace did, he sure complained a lot. Just the other day, as they'd walked back to camp sweating and exhausted, he'd said, "Doesn't this violate the Geneva Convention?"

Gilligan had replied: "Horace, if you ever get drafted? Do yourself a favor and don't try that joke on the DIs in boot camp. Believe me, every petty officer at Great Lakes has heard that one, and not one of them ever thought it was funny."

Today, for once, Horace wasn't complaining. He showed up for work whistling and wearing a smirk.

"Gee, Horace, " Gilligan said, "you look real. . . happy." _Happy_ wasn't quite the word Gilligan wanted, but _smug_ and _self-satisfied_ weren't in his vocabulary.

"Sure, why shouldn't I be?" Horace said with a grin.

 _Because you have work to do?_ Gilligan thought. What he said was, "Because we're marooned on this island?"

"Yeah, but that's not so bad. Guess who's got a crush on ol' _Horrr_ \- ace?"

"Who?"

"Jeez, Gilligan. There's only three women _on_ this rock, and one's married. You should be able to guess it in two, anyway."

"You didn't _say_ it had to be someone on the island," Gilligan pointed out.

"Okay, okay, I'm saying it now. C'mon, guess."

Gilligan thought. "Mrs. Howell?"

Horace snorted. "Married, remember?"

"You didn't say - " Gilligan began.

"Cripes! I implied it, didn't I?"

"I dunno. What's 'implied' mean?"

"Forget it. Try again."

"Mrs. Howell?"

Horace slapped his palm against his forehead. "Try again, but _say a different name_ this time." _Bozo_ , he added mentally.

"Oh. . . . Ginger?"

"Nuh-uhhhh."

Gilligan's brow furrowed. "But that just leaves Mary Ann. Can't be Mary Ann."

"Ohhh, yes it _ca-annn_."

Gilligan was starting to find the singsong voice annoying. " _Mary Ann_ has a crush on _you_?" Horace nodded happily. Gilligan looked skeptical. "Who says?"

"Old man Howell, that's who. I heard it from his own mouth" - Horace left out the eavesdropping part - "all about the love letters in bottles, and how she told everyone here I was her boyfriend. Wow! The things you learn about people you thought you knew, huh?"

Gilligan blanched. "Horace, you can never, ever let Mary Ann know you know about that."

"Huh? Why not?"

"She'd be embarrassed, that's why."

"Why should she be? She's not the only gal in the world who wants ol' Horace." He flexed an arm muscle.

Gilligan sighed. "Horace, she doesn't want you. She just wanted the rest of us to think she had someone waiting for her back home."

Horace chuckled. "Well, she must think _pret-_ ty highly of herself then, 'cause she sure picked the best."

Gilligan's eyes narrowed. "Look, Horace. I like you. But if you ever do anything to hurt Mary

Ann, _nobody's_ gonna like you. And I'll be first in line."

Horace looked amused. "To do what?"

Gilligan paused. "I dunno yet. But don't push your luck, 'cause it's gonna be seven against one. . . . Now, let's shove off. We've gotta get back to camp with that firewood."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

In the girls' hut, Horace was the topic again. Ginger and Mary Ann agreed that he had been acting extremely strange this morning. Unlike Gilligan, Ginger was perfectly familiar with the word _smug_ , and she used it now.

"Did you see the way he strutted and swaggered? And those weird looks he was giving you. Something's gotten into him, Mary Ann. I don't know what, but it looks like it's aimed at you."

Mary Ann shook her head. "I'm not worried." She grinned. "Horace is a pretty lousy shot."

"'i'm not kidding, honey. This could be big trouble."

Mary Ann laughed. "Oh, Ginger, it's just Horace. Why, I've known Horace all my life."

Ginger shook her head. "Boy, I don't know, Mary Ann. What goes on in Kansas? Is it something in the water?"

Mary Ann frowned. "What's _that_ supposed to mean?"

"Nothing personal. It's just that, you know, I've always had this idea of Kansas as kind of a nicey-nice, goody-two-shoes sort of place - Dorothy from _The Wizard of Oz_ and all that. Right? Fact is, Mary Ann, of all the people from Kansas _I've_ ever met, you're the only one who's a nice person."

"Hmph," Mary Ann said. "Well. You can't have met very many people from Kansas."

"Sure I have. Look at Duke Williams."

"Wait, Duke wasn't - oh, that's right, he did tell the Skipper he was from Topeka." Mary Ann shrugged. "Oh, well. What can you expect from a city boy?"

"Then there was Randolph - the less said about _him_ , the better."

Mary Ann rolled her eyes. "Agreed."

"And now Horace. Even you said he was a creep, and now that I've actually met him - God, Mary Ann, are you ever a great judge of character."

Mary Ann frowned. "Oh, don't judge us all by a few rotten apples. After all, think of some of the Hollywood stories you tell. Surely you wouldn't want me to judge all Hollywood by the people in those stories?"

"I hate to break it to you, honey, but you _can_ judge Hollywood pretty well by the people in those stories. Come to think of it, Hollywood's where I met Randolph."

"Well! There you go," Mary Ann said with a nod. "Obviously Mr. Blake thought someplace like Hollywood suited him better than Kansas. And Horace prefers New York, he told me so."

Ginger shrugged.

"So," Mary Ann said, narrowing her eyes, "everyone you ever met from Kansas was bad, huh?"

"I said everyone except you."

Mary Ann placed her hands on her hips. "Well, now, wait a minute. How do you know I'm not bad too?"

Ginger laughed with delight. "Oh, Mary Ann, you couldn't be bad if you tried."

For some reason this stung. "I can _too_! You take that back, Ginger Grant! Who do you think you are, anyway?"

"Hold on, now!" Ginger couldn't quite stop laughing. "I didn't mean to start a fight. You're just a really nice person, that's all."

"No, that's _not_ all! I can be just as bad as anyone on this island when I put my mind to it. How about the time I smuggled gold aboard the raft, and it sank with everyone on it? Or the time I helped you swipe that top-secret briefcase from the Professor? Or when I tried to stow away on that space capsule in the lagoon?" She snapped her fingers. "Oh - remember when we had the water shortage, and I stole water from the supply that was supposed to be for all of us? Now, _that_ was a pretty rotten thing to do, wasn't it?"

Ginger finally had her laughter under control. "You're kind of proving my point, honey. I never said you were perfect. But those were things we _all_ did, or else things _I_ cooked up and _you_ went along with."

Somewhere way in the back of Mary Ann's head a small voice was saying: _What am I doing? This has got to be the dumbest fight Ginger and I have ever had_. She ignored it.

"Oh, is that so? Well. . . well, the _heck_ with you! I don't need you or anyone else to be bad! I can do it all by myself!" And she stormed out.

Within minutes Mary Ann reached her open-air kitchen. It was her refuge, always the best place for her to calm down on the rare occasion when she was upset. Usually a place where she could be alone, because the other castaways generally didn't go there unless they were helping her out.

But she wasn't alone. Horace was there, leaning on a palm tree.

You'd almost have thought he was waiting for her.


	14. A Great Judge of Character

Chapter 14: A Great Judge of Character

Mary Ann frowned. "Oh, hi, Horace," she said.

Horace approached her. "Hi, Mary Ann - hey, what's wrong?"

She was mildly surprised. Horace, who was nobody's first choice for Mr. Sensitive, had actually noticed her mood. _Gosh, I must be wearing it on my sleeve_. (Not that her top _had_ sleeves.)

"Ohhh - I just had an argument with Ginger. Kind of a silly one, really."

"Yeah? What about?"

Mary Ann sighed. "Well, she seems to think I'm some kind of - oh, Little Miss Perfect, or something. What really started it was, she said I couldn't be bad if I tried. Like I don't have enough brains or - or gumption to be bad on my own - I just follow along with everyone else."

Horace smirked. "Oh, well, now. . . that can't be right. I bet you could be bad as anyone. . . if you gave yourself half a chance."

She beamed with vindication. "Why, that's just what I said!" _There, you see? Horace has known me all my life, certainly longer than you, Miss Amateur Psychologist._

"Mmm-hmm."

Mary Ann was suddenly aware that Horace was standing a little closer than she liked. She had to tilt her head back to look up at him.

He rubbed her bare shoulder. It was probably supposed to be a caress, but it was really more of a rub.

"How about we prove it?" he asked softly.

Mary Ann blinked. "Prove what?"

"How. . . bad you can really be. I can help. I'd be _glad_ to help."

Mary Ann kicked Horace in the shin.

Horace yelped. He clutched his bruised leg, hopping up and down on the other one, looking like a woodchuck on a pogo stick. Mary Ann moved out of reach.

"Oww! What'd you do _that_ for, Mary Ann? That _hurt_!"

Mary Ann clenched her fists. "Well, it was supposed to hurt! Didn't you learn in grade school to keep your hands to yourself? What in Heaven's name did you think you were doing, anyway?"

Horace quit hopping. Still standing on one leg, now he looked more like a tubby stork. "Mary Ann, darn it, I'm _lonely_. Nobody around here likes me. And I have. . . you know. . . _needs_."

"I'm not here to see to your _needs_ , Horace," she informed him. "I don't always know just what I _am_ here for, but that isn't it."

"Look," he said, "if it comes down to it, I'd be willing to marry you, if that's what you want."

" _What_? What are you _talking_ about?"

"What I mean is, the Skipper can perform marriages, right?"

"Have you lost your mind? You're _already_ _married_ , for heaven's sake! Have you forgotten? It wasn't all that long ago! It was on the radio and everything!"

"Well. it wasn't that long ago you went around telling everyone on this rock I was your boyfriend, either! I must mean something to you!"

Mary Ann's heart seemed to stop. Her face turned brick red. She sat down shakily in her chair.

"Horace, I - no, that was just a piece of foolishness on my part. It didn't mean a thing, honest."

Horace sat on his haunches in front of her. "Why'd you do it, then?"

Mary Ann fought back tears. "Ohhh, I don't know. . . it was just. . . Mrs. Howell has her husband, and Ginger has more boyfriends than you can shake a stick at, tons of fan mail, all that stuff. I just wanted to make the others think I had someone, too. . . that I wasn't just some kind of. . . old maid or something. I don't know."

"Oh." Horace knitted his brow in thought. "But why me, specifically?"

She didn't answer right away.

"You know, Horace," she began slowly, "I never did have much of a social life back home. I had chores, school, 4-H. . . I worked in the feed store; you remember that, I guess. . . then later on I had the job in the general store. I guess someone else has that job now. . . . I did go around with Joe Rader for a little while." She smiled. "Still have the slave bracelet he gave me, even if it did turn my wrist green. But Joe got married right after graduation. I couldn't send him any letters - suppose he actually got one? What would his wife think? Same thing with the other boys. I know some of them were married by the time I left; and even the ones who weren't may have gotten married since, for all I know. I didn't want to be a homewrecker."

Mary Ann paused. She'd just confided more than she'd really meant to.

Horace knitted his brow again. "In that case, though, how'd you know you wouldn't be wrecking my home?"

Mary Ann's complexion had slowly regained its normal color. Now she reddened again. "Gee, Horace. . . ." She sighed. "To tell the truth. . . I never thought anyone _would_ marry you."

"Oh." Horace looked at the ground.

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay." He looked up. "So how about it?"

Mary Ann blinked. "How about what?"

" _You_ know. . . what we were talking about. Before."

"What we. . . you mean. . .you still want. . . ." Horace nodded enthusiastically.

Mary Ann's eyes widened. She jumped up from the chair. Startled, Horace reared back and fell off his haunches. His tail hit the ground with a _plop_.

"Horace Higgenbotham, what is _wrong_ with you?" Mary Ann shouted. " _You're married_!"

Horace shook his head like a dazed mule. "Well. . . sure, yeah. Back in _civilization_ , I am. But I'm not there now, and. . . well, Sybil's not _here_. Who knows if we'll ever get back? I just thought, well, out here we could have our own. . . arrangement."

"Oh, great! Nobody can see you, so it doesn't matter what you do, right? What would Sybil even _think_ if she could hear this conversation?"

"Yeah, I know, but. . . it could be, like, _years_ before I see her again. If ever. You expect me to wait all that time?"

" _I_ don't expect _anything_ ," she said. "I don't care _what_ you do. Just leave me out of it, that's all I ask."

Hands on hips, she glared down at him.

"What kind of girl do you think I am? You think I'm like those girls who used to cozy up to you just because you had a fat allowance and a car? Is that what you think of me? Well, all right, then! And you know what I think of _you_ , so we're even! I told you what I thought of you back in Kansas, eight years ago. And I haven't changed my mind!"

As she turned to leave, Horace scrambled to his feet and lurched toward her, grabbing her hand. "Mary Ann, wait!"

She pulled away. "Keep your hands _off_ me, you. . . you creep!" She wheeled and stalked off.

Horace shook his head.

"What happened just now, anyway?" he asked the indifferent sky. "I don't get this. For crying out loud, I thought this was the nineteen- _sixties_!"


	15. We Are Seven

Chapter 15: We Are Seven

Mary Ann was almost running. When she was far enough from the kitchen, when she knew Horace wouldn't hear, she let go. She cried. As she cried, she picked up her pace; by the time she ran into Gilligan, she _was_ running. And she literally did _run into_ Gilligan as he ambled along the path.

"Mary Ann, what's wrong? Are you okay?"

"Okay? _No_ , I'm not okay! Look at me! Do I _look_ okay?"

He looked. She definitely didn't look okay, not with tears leaving tracks on her cheeks. "What happened?"

"Ohh, Gilligan. . . it's _Horace_. . . he _knows. . ._ the letters. . . ." A new freshet of tears came. She hid her face in her hands.

"Oh, my gosh, Mary Ann. I'm so sorry. I _told_ him not to say anything."

Mary Ann's head jerked up. She looked him dead in the eyes. "You told him. . . what? _You told him_?" _Of course,_ she thought bitterly. _Who else?_ She began to cry harder. "Oh, _Gilligan_. . . Gilligan, how _could_ you? You _promised_! You _promised_!"

Gilligan stood before her, his mouth open. He was on the verge of denying it. But then he'd have to tattle on Mr. Howell. And he couldn't do it. Besides. . . maybe she wouldn't believe him anyway.

Mary Ann shoved Gilligan out of her way and ran past him, weeping.

Gilligan sighed and shook his head. This was going to ruin everything. It was the worst thing that could have happened to poor Mary Ann. How was she going to live on the same island with Horace now? And she would always blame him. It might poison their friendship. Even if she forgave him. . . she'd never trust him again. And how was _he_ supposed to live with _that_?

Maybe Mr. Howell would confess when he saw how upset Mary Ann was. Sure. And right after that, maybe he'd donate a million dollars to Yale.

Gilligan shrugged. Nothing to do now but hunt up the Skipper. Not that the Skipper could make anything better. But he at least needed to know what was going on. Maybe he could keep things from getting worse. After all, what else was a skipper for?

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The Skipper and the Professor were sitting at the table when Mary Ann found them. They were already discussing the Horace problem, but from a different angle.

"Skipper, it's been over a week since we last talked about this. The situation hasn't changed in the slightest. Horace is still consuming more than he contributes."

"I get it, Professor. I just don't like it, that's all. For one thing, it goes against all my training."

"How so?"

"Well, in the Navy you look after your _whole_ crew. If a man isn't coming along as fast as he should, or contributing as much as he should, you teach him, train him, you even discipline him when it's called for. But you don't just abandon him."

"But Skipper, Horace isn't part of our 'crew.' He can be, any time he wants, but he isn't yet. That's his own choice. He's not one of us, and you don't owe him the same loyalty or care you owe the rest of us. Besides, I'm not asking you to feed him to the sharks. Even in the Navy, you said, you discipline a man when he needs it. Horace needs it."

The Skipper's tone was sharp now. "Pushing a man into the woods and telling him to fend for himself isn't _discipline_ \- not in the Navy, anyway. Any petty officer who did that to a sailor would lose his stripes in two seconds. And if the sailor got hurt, the petty officer might end up busting rocks at Portsmouth."

"Well, what do _you_ suggest? Shall we clap him into irons? But wait - we don't _have_ any irons!"

The Skipper wasn't used to hearing crude sarcasm from the Professor, and it wasn't helping his mood. "Now, see here - ."

It was then that Mary Ann approached. Her tears were under control, and she told her story as simply as she could. When she was done, the Professor gave the Skipper a direct look. "Well, what do you think now?"

"What do I think?" the Skipper growled. "I think we ought to keelhaul him. But since I don't have a keel to haul him under. . . looks like you're right again, Professor."

The Skipper got to his feet. "Mary Ann, you can probably use a rest. Why don't you go to your hut and lie down? You and Ginger meet us back out here in, let's say an hour."

"Why, Skipper? What are you going to do?" Mary Ann asked.

"I think we need to have a little meeting to decide what to do about Horace." The Skipper looked grim. "The Professor has some ideas."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The meeting was brief. The vote was unanimous. Gilligan was sent to fetch Horace.

The Professor explained things to Horace. Horace was stunned. Looking into seven stony faces, he blustered. He sputtered. He whined. Nothing helped.

"Throw me out? Out where? We're on an island!"

Gilligan folded his arms. "You're going to go live on the other side of the island, Horace."

Horace tried to laugh. It didn't come off. "Really? How're you gonna make me?"

The Skipper said, "I'll break your legs and throw you back into the ocean if you don't, that's how."

"Horace, be sensible," the Professor said. "There are seven of us and one of you."

"But - I'd starve to death."

"There are abundant fruits growing naturally all over this island," the Professor said. "There are springs to provide fresh water; Gilligan can show you. Oh, no, Horace - you won't starve, I assure you."

Horace's eyes shifted from face to face, looking for any hint of sympathy. "You can't be serious, right? I mean, you're just trying to scare me? Well, it worked! I'll change, I swear to God I will. I'll work harder - I - I -"

He turned to Mary Ann. "Mary Ann, _please_. For the love of God, can't you help me? For old times' sake?"

Mary Ann was actually struggling with herself. In spite of everything, she felt an undercurrent of sympathy - maybe just because it _was_ seven against one. And she might have said something, if Horace hadn't blown it by invoking "old times' sake."

 _Old times' sake?_ What _old times?_

That made her mind up. Horace was still the same Horace she'd known in those "old times," and he was never going to change.

She felt a little like Madame Defarge - but she shook her head. "Sorry, Horace. You asked for it."

Horace gulped. Then he was able to muster up a lopsided sort of smile. "Well, Gilligan, looks like you called it."

"Huh?"

"You told me - if I ever did anything to Mary Ann, it'd be seven to one against me, and you'd be the first in line." Mary Ann gave a little gasp, unheard by the others. "Shoulda listened to you, I guess."

The Professor broke the silence. "Come along, Horace. The Skipper and I will take you to the supply hut and help you pack." _And make sure you don't take too much or ruin any of our supplies out of spite_ , the Skipper thought.

"Pack?" Horace said. "Pack what?"

"We have no intention of turning you out with nothing," the Professor said. "You can have a limited amount of supplies, enough to last a few days while you're learning to fend for yourself. What's more, you can spend the night here in camp. In the morning we'll escort you to the other side of the island."

Horace turned and walked to the hut, flanked by the Skipper and Professor. Mary Ann sat at the table. The others drifted off. Gilligan was the last; he hesitated, started to turn toward Mary Ann, stopped, then slowly turned and trudged into the boys' hut. Mary Ann sat, her arm propping up her head, gazing into the jungle; gazing at nothing.


	16. Lay Your Weary Head to Rest

Chapter 16: Lay Your Weary Head to Rest

At dawn the boat hove into sight of the next island.

The captain frowned at his chart. "You sure you want to look here, Mrs. H? This island's supposed to be uninhabited, which means there's nobody to ask. And if he _is_ here, he's been alone for weeks now, and nobody to help him. So if we do find him. . . . "

Sybil's tone was sharp. "Of course I want to look here. What we find, we find. Either way, if he's here, I can't simply leave him."

The captain shrugged. "It's your charter. This'll have to be the last, though. Can't go any further south without fueling."

"Understood. Do we know anything about this island?"

"Not much _to_ know. Hasn't even got a name. Says here" - he held up a thick, well-worn paperback guide - "the Japanese Navy occupied it in '41; they were running midget subs out of the lagoon. The Marines - our Marines, that is - took it off their hands in '42. Then MacArthur used it to train infantry for jungle combat. When the war ended, they just packed up and left. Took everything with 'em. It isn't even on most charts; I wouldn't have known about it myself if I hadn't had this."

He looked at the guide again.

"Oh, here's something else - it has fresh water. That's the most important thing, if he _is_ here."

"Indeed. Shall we land here?"

"Here" was a narrow strip of beach under a sheer wall of volcanic rock topped by foliage. He shook his head.

"Negative. I'll swing her 'round to the other side. There's a lagoon and a nice big beach. That's the place." He frowned again. "I'll tell you, exploring this rock with no map is not gonna be a day at the beach."

"On the contrary: that's what it will _mainly_ be. If he's here, the beach is just where we're likeliest to find him. He wouldn't stray far inland; he'd want to keep an eye on the horizon."

 _And he may not have had enough strength left to get off the beach_ , the captain thought.

No need to say it out loud. He knew Sybil knew. He could see it in her eyes. She was tired. Had she still thought Horace had a chance, hope would have sustained her. As it was, the effort of not giving up was draining her. The stiff upper lip, the squared shoulders, the steady chin. The defiance. The _not quitting_.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Mary Ann was waiting at dawn when Gilligan came out of his hut. Time for another morning walk. Maybe it would clear her head.

Gilligan saw her standing there and stopped short. "Um, hi, Mary Ann. . . ." he said.

"Hi, Gilligan," she said with her brightest smile. "Can I tag along?"

He took a second to absorb this. "Oh - sure! Sure you can!" he said. "But. . . does this mean you're not mad at me anymore?

"Yep. That's what it means." She paused and looked up into Gilligan's eyes. "You know something? I thought I would be just mortified if Horace found out. Well, now he knows - and it's not as bad as I thought. Heck, it's just Horace. Who cares what _he_ thinks, anyhow?"

Gilligan smiled. "Yeah, who cares? But you're sure you're not mad?"

Mary Ann looked steadily at him. "Gilligan, I promise you I'm not mad. I'm sorry I ever was."

Gilligan's cheeks puffed out as he exhaled. "Good, 'cause now I can tell you something I couldn't tell you when you were mad. I'm not the one who told Horace."

Mary Ann was confused. "Really? But I thought you said -"

"What I was trying to say was, when Horace told me he knew, I told him not to say anything to you about it." Gilligan's mouth twisted a little. "That worked out real well, huh? Anyway, that's all I told him."

She sighed. "Ohh - I guess I should have known. I can always count on you. I was so upset I kind of forgot that. Can you forgive me?"

"Sure."

"Not that it matters now," Mary Ann said, "but who did tell him?"

Gilligan shrugged. "Well, _he_ said it was Mr. Howell."

"Really? That seems strange."

"Of course," Gilligan added, "you can't really rely on Horace."

"That's right, Gilligan," Mary Ann said. "He's not like you."


	17. Same Old Song

Chapter 17: Same Old Song

As they rounded the headland, Sybil called out:

" _Captain! Stop! Look!_ "

It was Horace. He stood morosely on the narrow strip of sand, looking out to sea. He'd lost weight. His clothes were dirty. He had a few days' growth of beard. Sybil knew him at once.

A second later, Horace saw the boat. His jaw dropped.

"There he is, Captain! Let's go get him!"

She semaphored with her arm. Horace waved back.

It was too deep to anchor - the sea floor dropped sharply here - so the captain stayed aboard. Sybil didn't need him; after a lifetime of boating, she could handle the launch by herself. She motored up to the island, skillfully beached the launch, and leapt off. Her embrace almost knocked Horace down.

When he could speak, he said, "Sybil - my gosh - I never thought I'd see you again! Have you really been looking for me all this time?"

She laughed. "Well, we let the Coast Guard have a turn at bat first. But they quit after a week, darling. That's the difference. I didn't quit. But we can talk later - let's get you aboard, dearest."

They were aboard the yacht in minutes. They stood in the stern, facing forward, snuggling against the taffrail as the boat headed north. Back to civilization.

"Oh, darling, darling, you are a sight for sore eyes," Sybil said. She looked into her husband's eyes. "Oh, Horace," she said. "I'm so sorry,"

"Sorry! What about? Honey, you rescued me from a deserted island. . . a completely, totally deserted island. With no people on it. Where I was all alone."

She grimaced. "Perhaps sailing wasn't the best idea for our honeymoon after all."

Horace laughed. "No, no, you were right. It was. . . an experience. And boy, will I have some stories to tell!" He paused. "All about being all alone. And how lonesome I was, all by myself there. With no people around whatsoever."

"I must say, dear, you look a good deal healthier than I'd feared. I'd have thought you'd lose more weight, all alone on an island."

Horace winked. "Survival skills, babe. I just used my survival skills."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

As they walked to the lagoon, Gilligan carefully governing his stride so Mary Ann could keep up, they talked about Horace's exile.

"I feel just awful about the whole thing," Mary Ann said. "But, my gosh, I don't know what else to _do_ with him."

"Nobody does, Mary Ann. He's kind of hard to live with." This, by Gilligan's standards, was a harsh judgment. "But don't worry. He's only been gone a couple of days. I bet he'll be back. Once he improves his attitude a little bit. Or else the Skipper will decide to go make sure he's okay." _Or else he'll send_ me _to go make sure he's okay_. Gilligan didn't say this last part.

They reached the lagoon. Mary Ann saw it first.

"Gilligan! Look! It's a boat! A _boat_!"

It was. And it was headed north. Headed to sea. Mary Ann could just make out two figures in the stern.

"A boat!" Gilligan shouted. " _Hey_! Boat ahoy!" He waved his arms. "Boat - a - _hoy_! Over here!"

He heard a sharp intake of breath from Mary Ann.

"Gilligan, _that's Horace_! I can tell - look how the sun shines off his bald spot!"

"Yeah! But who's that with him?"

Mary Ann squinted. "Gilligan, it's a girl! Why, that must be Sybil!"

They watched the two figures turn to look back at the island. They watched the figures turn back again. And they watched as the boat fell below the horizon.

Mary Ann stamped her foot. " _Ohhhh_. . . they're gone!"

"Yep."

"Oh, _Gilligan_." Mary Ann was near tears. "Why didn't they turn back? Horace knows we're here!"

Gilligan shrugged. "If you were Horace, and you acted the way he did, would you tell anyone about us?"

She sighed. "You're right. I don't know what I was thinking." She scowled. "That rat." Her expression softened. "Oh, think of poor Sybil, though. I don't even know her and I already feel sorry for her."

After a minute's forlorn silence, Gilligan squared his shoulders. "Well, I better go check those traps. Are you gonna head back to camp and tell the others?"

Mary Ann shrugged. "No, there's no hurry. I'll just wait for you. Can I help?"

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Sybil lifted her head. "Darling? What was that noise?"

"I didn't hear anything."

"There it is again. I'm sure it came from the island" - she turned to face it - "and look! I can see something bright red back there! It's moving."

Horace turned around.

"It's a bird. They have some really pretty jungle birds on that island, all sorts of colors. I'll tell you all about them sometime."

As the island receded, Sybil rested her head again on Horace's shoulder. "I can't wait."


End file.
